


Three Times

by WroughtBetwixt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aggressive Dean Winchester, Denial of Feelings, Father/Son Incest, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Incest, Internal Conflict, John-centric, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Seduction, Self-Denial, Underage Kissing, Young Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:30:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1932084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WroughtBetwixt/pseuds/WroughtBetwixt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "Once is an accident. Twice is coincidence. Three times is an enemy action." There were two incidents where John could almost ignore what was going on with his son-- the third, not so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Times

_They say one time, it’s an accident._  
  
Sam’s asleep in the Impala, and Dean’s sitting across the campfire from John. He’s animated, cheerful from the gift John had given him for his probably-pretty much-close enough birthday-- a sleek, black sniper rifle. John smiles; it’s been a while since he’s seen his little soldier quite so happy. But then Dean looks up, fire dancing in his eyes, and all traces of humor gone from his beautiful face.  
  
“Fifteen, huh?”  
  
There’s a drawl there that makes John pause. “Fifteen,” he confirms warily.  
  
“Huh. I’m legal in Colorado.”  
  
John feels himself freeze, barely breathing at the way Dean stares back at him. A loud crack comes from the fire, and then Dean’s grinning that stupid, sly grin of his. John mutters something about killing him if he knocks up some chick. Dean just laughs, says “yes, sir” and goes back to his usual rambling conversation; John’s allowed to pretend that his heart isn’t beating harder than before.  
  
No. No, no, no.  
  
 _They say two times, it’s coincidence._  
  
It’s May 1st, and a small clan of skinwalkers in New Mexico was about ready to sacrifice a poor virgin girl for some fertility rite. John manages to take three of the four out; the first was taken by surprise, and the other two are old and slow. But their leader, a huge, snarling thing, is younger and faster than John expected. Suddenly John finds himself pinned and struggling, trying to keep the creature from latching it’s jaws onto his arm. But then the skinwalker jerks back, and John can see blood streaming from a bulletwound between it’s eyes. It falls over, dead; John stands up and looks towards the ridge where he left Dean. A shape stands up, black against a dark blue sky, heading his way.  
  
They don’t speak as they clean up the mess. The girl they meant to save was already dead, her throat slit. Another victim in a long, long line of mysterious, random killings. But then they’re done, and they’re heading back up the mountain to where they parked the Impala. They take their time. Sam’s with Bobby, and it gives them a rare opportunity to slow down, breathe and gather their thoughts. John stops when they get to the top of the mountain, squinting up at the canvas of stars painted about them. It was silent, save for just a bit of wind. At least, until Dean speaks, his voice getting just a hint of roughness to it.  
  
“You alright there, old man?”  
  
John looks to his son. He’s standing there with the sniper rifle slung over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised and a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Then he takes a step closer, and John feels his throat close. “Yeah,” he manages to force out. “Nice shot you’ve got there.”  
  
 Dean reaches out, patting John’s back. “Learned from the best.”  
  
And for a moment, Dean’s hand trails down John’s spine, resting oh so lightly on the older man’s hip. John closes his eyes, a shudder going through him as he quickly steps away and makes his way down the other side of the mountain towards the Impala. “Let’s go.”  
  
Dean’s voice is softer now. “Yes, sir.”  
  
What the fuck was wrong with Dean? What the fuck was wrong with _him_?  
  
 _They say three times, it’s planned._  
  
August in Colorado is hot and humid. They find themselves at a a cheap motel outside of Denver, some seedy looking place with an air conditioner in the window that rattles and dies when Dean tries to turn it on. There isn’t much John can do about it; it was getting dark, and he has a killer to go hunt.  
  
“It’ll be a quick job,” John tells Dean, who flops on one of the two beds and gives the ceiling a pained look. “We’ll find somewhere better in the morning.”  
  
The ‘quick job’ takes the entire night. The killer was a vampire, the first John has ever encountered, and it gave him hell. By the time John limps back to the motel, it’s 3am and he’s covered in sweat, dirt and blood. While the air outside has cooled a fraction, it’s still humid, and the motel room is stuffy; it doesn’t help soothe John’s frayed nerves. Everything feels too closed in, and with adrenaline pounding through him, he’s tempted to turn right back around and just drive until dawn. But he barely got to the motel, and now his heart is slamming in his chest, and his lungs feel like bursting yet can’t get enough air, and his pulse is in his ears, and...  
  
“Hey, dad.”  
  
The quiet greeting makes him look up from the floor, makes him wonder which of his children is seeing him fall apart this time. Sam is sleeping in one bed, on top of the covers and sprawled out on his stomach. John’s gaze moves to the other bed. Dean is awake, kicked back and leaning against the headboard. He’s shirtless, his jeans look fresh, and his sun-kissed hair is damp and mussed up; fresh out of the shower, then. Of course it’s Dean. Who else? John opens his mouth, tries to say something, tries to say that he’s fine, but those green eyes are burning through him, and the knowing there is more terrifying than the vampire. Then Dean’s moving, saying nothing as he slides off the bed and walks to John.  
  
Dean’s hands are steady as he gently peels the leather jacket off John and drops it to the floor. John wants to protest, but Dean’s already unbuttoning the blood-stained shirt, pushing it from John’s shoulders; those soft fingertips move over his skin, checking him for bites, scratches, stab wounds... but the blood isn’t his, and so Dean finds nothing but bruises, knotted muscles and old scars. Nothing new. Yet the touch doesn’t stop as Dean circles back around, stopping in front of John and lightly running both hands down his sides, along his ribs, kneading just the right spots to make his shoulders relax. Just not the spots, his racing mind hissed, you wish he’d...  
  
“Dean,” John finally manages to say, but it comes out a whimper. “Don’t.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
... Why? John was staring at the floor, but he finds himself moving his eyes up Dean’s body. The way those jeans are a bit too tight; the quickly developing muscles along the teen’s abdomen, chest, shoulders, neck; the hard jawline, those full, barely parted lips... But then he meets Dean’s gaze again, and John feels everything inside him twist as a different kind of heat settles over his body. That’s why, he wants to say. Because I’m the monster you should worry about tonight.  
  
“I need to take a shower,” John says instead. “Go to bed.”  
  
Dean holds John’s stare, before lowering his eyes and stepping back. “Yes, sir.”  
  
Letting out a shaking breath, John leans to kiss the top of Dean’s head, like he had every night they’d been together for the last fifteen years. Instinct. Habit. It was then that Dean moved, tilting his head up and meeting John’s lips; John moves back, but Dean moves forward, pushing John against the motel door. A small mewl of protest escapes John’s throat, but it just gives Dean the chance to kiss him deeper, and John feels himself giving in. Everything in his mind screams against it, but damn it, Dean’s so willing, so eager, and it’s been so long since anyone’s touched him, John finds himself kissing back.  
  
But Dean pulls away then, just a little, and John curses himself. Of course he’s scared Dean, of course Dean’s realized what a stupid idea this was, of course Dean’s realized how wrong it is. The cursing, however, is replaced by a second whimper as Dean leans up, his lips caressing up John’s jaw to his ear. “Go take a shower,” Dean whispers. “I’ll wait up.”  
  
John stares after Dean when he pulls away, a sway in his hips as he wanders back to the bed. Shaking, John gathers the cleanest clothes he can find, rushes the shower and slinks back into the bedroom of the motel. Sam is snoring, thankfully; Dean’s stretched out under the sheet on one side of the second bed, his eyes almost predatory as John circles to the empty side. His jeans are casually left on the floor, and John feels his heart begin to slam in his ribcage as he steps over them, sliding into bed with his son and closing his eyes as Dean pulls him closer. Too close... and not close enough. John curls his arms around Dean’s naked frame, letting Dean do exactly as he’s been planning from the beginning.  
  
John knew he was going to Hell for this. Somehow, at this point, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.


End file.
